Chasing Mona Lisa
Authors: Tricia Goyer; Mike Yorkey
Tags: #France—History—German occupation (1940–1945)—Fiction, #FIC042030, #FIC042060, #FIC027110, #Art thefts—Investigation—Fiction, #World War (1939–1945)—Confiscations and contributions—France—Fiction
© 2012 by Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3599-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-7953
Page 7—Description from Claudine Canetti, “The World’s Most Famous Painting Has the World All Aflutter,”
Actualité en France
, http://www.diplomatie.gouv.fr.
Page 211—Material taken from “
Mona Lisa
: The myth of
Mona Lisa
,” Treasures of the World, pbs.org/treasuresoftheworld/mona_lisa/mlevel_1/m4myth.html.
Page 277—Description from R. A. Scotti,
Vanished Smile: The Mysterious Theft of Mona Lisa
(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009), 222.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Praise for
Chasing Mona Lisa
“Intriguing and well-written . . . Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey had me at hello!”
—Lynn Vincent,
New York Times
bestselling writer of
Heaven Is for Real
and
Same Kind of Different as Me
“A riveting, well-researched tale that kept me glued to the pages.
Chasing Mona Lisa
is absolutely my favorite kind of story: rich in period detail, fast-paced, and loaded with twists. A winner!”
—Christopher Reich,
New York Times
bestselling author
of
Rules of Vengeance
and
Rules of Betrayal
“I love it when I get lost in a good book, and
Chasing Mona Lisa
kept me enthralled from start to finish.”
—Debra McCoy, mother of Cleveland Browns quarterback Colt McCoy
“With
Chasing Mona Lisa
, you purchase a ticket to a world of mystery, heroism, and adventure. Join the battle to free France and save her priceless treasures from Nazi hands. In the process you’ll find yourself sinking into a story that leaves you longing for just one more page.”
—Cara Putman, award-winning author of
Stars in the Night
and
Ohio Brides
Praise for
The Swiss Courier
“What I love about
The Swiss Courier
is its gutsy heroine, Gabi. Willing to take risks for the higher good, yet vulnerable, Gabi is a wonderful portrayal of the tender strength of womanhood. Add to that a twisting plot, the raging of World War II, and a kindling love story, and you have an enjoyable read.”
—Mary E. DeMuth, author of
Daisy Chain
“Fabulous! Filled with heart-stopping suspense and fascinating details of life in WWII Europe,
The Swiss Courier
is an unforgettable story of faith and courage when faced with the highest of stakes. I loved everything about this book, from its riveting first scene to the surprise denouement. Bravo, Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey. This is more than a page-turner; it’s a keeper.”
—Amanda Cabot, author of
Paper Roses
“
The Swiss Courier
sizzles like a
24
episode with a World War II twist. The pulsating action and plot twists will keep you riveted.”
—Bob Welch, author of
American Nightingale
and coauthor of
Easy Company
“‘This was a time of war, not love.’ That statement from the beginning pages of
The Swiss Courier
sets the tone for this gripping, fast-paced story of honor and duty set in 1944 against the backdrop of World War II. With an intensity that builds to the very end, this book is compelling, chilling, and fascinating.”
—Lenora Worth, author of
Code of Honor
From Mike:
To Jon Shafqat
—
With many thanks . . .
From Tricia:
To Katie
—
Having you join our family has been
as priceless as the
Mona Lisa
To the Reader
The world-renowned Musée du Louvre, in Paris, France, started as a fortress when construction began in 1190. In the fourteenth century, Charles V converted the fortress into a residential chateau, and from the 1660s until 1682, Louis XIV, the Sun King, transformed the Louvre into the grandest palace in Europe. Within its walls today, 35,000 irreplaceable pieces of art are exhibited, including the three most notable—the
Mona Lisa
, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory at Samothrace.
The
Mona Lisa
, or as she is called in French,
La Joconde
, greets visitors from behind a climate-controlled enclosure fronted by bulletproof glass. Over five hundred years old, the portrait of the most famous woman in the world—Lisa del Giocondo, the wife of a Florentine silk merchant—measures only twenty-one inches wide by thirty inches tall. It is said that her eyes follow—perhaps even haunt—viewers. Her folded hands look smooth, and her smile, forever enigmatic. From the moment the Italian painter Leonardo da Vinci finished this masterpiece in 1519 a few years before his death, no portrait has elicited more scrutiny, study, and even parody in the history of art.
During World War II, the Nazis looted thousands of paintings and art works from the lands they conquered. Armed with the knowledge that their beloved treasures were in danger, the French packed up the
Mona Lisa
before the German Army overran Paris. She was moved from one hiding place to another, and she even hung in a little girl’s bedroom for a time. The
Mona Lisa
remained safe throughout the time of the Nazi occupation of France . . .
Until the Libération of Paris.
Pro
logue
Thursday, August 20, 1942
Paris, France, during Nazi occupation
Dressed in soiled blue overalls and pushing a dented trash can, the solitary figure shuffled past two German sentries stationed at the Gare de l’Est’s archway entrance.
The brim of a felt hat covered Bernard Rousseau’s downturned eyes, allowing him to avert the soldiers’ cold glare.
No one will bother you if you avoid eye contact while performing a menial job
. Cradling that thought, he moved past the guards into the gilded entrance arcade.
Gare de l’Est, one of six train stations in Paris and the main terminus for rail traffic to and from Germany, was moderately busy this summer afternoon. In stark contrast to the pall of oppression in the streets, a festive spirit hung in the air underneath the iron trusses of the train shed where clusters of German officers—flanked by smiling wives and jubilant children—arrived on holiday. Sweating porters toted their luggage, struggling to keep up within the grand structure dominated by decorative columns.
Rousseau ground his teeth at the sight of Germans vacationing in his city. They were the only ones who could afford the haute cuisine at the Hôtel Ritz, the nightly revues at the Moulin Rouge, and the soporific productions at the Paris Opéra. Signs in German plastered the city, including a garish “DEUTSCHLAND SIEGT AN ALLEN FRONTEN” affixed to the Eiffel Tower’s first terrace—
Germany Is Victorious on All Fronts
.
Every day at the stroke of noon, German tourists assembled along the Champs Élysées and clapped for three hundred Wehrmacht soldiers goose-stepping toward the Place de la Concorde, trailing a brass band that oom-pahed the strident notes of “Prussia’s Glory.”
With a sigh of regret, Rousseau refocused on the task at hand. There was only one train that interested him—the 14:05 Intercity to Berlin on Voie 2. He aimed his wheeled trash bin for the voluminous train shed, which covered twenty lines. The departure was an hour away.
He blew out a slow breath, reminding himself to remain calm. Patience and cunning were two of his best assets, and they must serve him well in the next few minutes.
Positioning his cart at the end of the nearly deserted platform, he reached for a long-handled twig broom. Wide strokes gathered food wrappers, strewn newspapers, and used claim checks into a small pile. With the blade of a square-edge shovel, he emptied the debris into his bin.
A pair of German soldiers on patrol passed by with shouldered rifles. They ignored his presence as they continued their slow plod in the direction of the train’s locomotive. No passengers were in sight as a three-man crew scrubbed the railway cars and cleaned windows.
Rousseau resumed sweeping, pacing out the mindless task with the enthusiasm of a prison inmate. Fifteen minutes later, a small team of soldiers pushing a pair of flatbed carts passed by. Heavy olive-green tarps, cinched with rope, covered the cargo destined for the heart of darkness—Nazi Germany.
A German officer, dressed in a Waffen-SS mouse-gray uniform with knee-high black boots, seemed unusually intent as he trailed close behind. The soldiers smoothly maneuvered the carts next to a freight car directly behind a tender filled with chunks of black coal. Rousseau couldn’t tell what was underneath the tarps, but they looked to be tall, rectangular crates stacked side by side.
He turned his back on the delivery and continued to work his besom broom. When he dared to look again, the soldiers were loosening the ropes on the first cart, leaving the stiff tarp over the cargo.
Rousseau eased closer—close enough to hear the sound of guttural German from the Nazi officer overseeing the loading process. He detested their heavy-handed language—an auditory reminder that German power was absolute. Because of them, the France he knew no longer existed, and the Paris he loved was on its knees.
Hate stirred like untended embers in his gut. Hate toward the Germans’ arrogance, their ruthlessness.
Shortly after the Nazis marched into Paris, his father had been picked up off the street. He’d been on his way to return a borrowed ladder when a German patrol stopped him at random, lined him against a wall with nine of his compatriots, and pulled their triggers.
His crime? Nothing. He was murdered in cold blood by a Nazi reprisal squad. Ever since that traumatic event, Rousseau’s home had been within the ranks of the Resistance.
The German officer checked a clipboard as the first tarp was peeled back. Four wooden boxes stood side by side in varying heights. Two looked to be about two meters tall, the others slightly shorter. Stenciled in black on the side of the first wooden crate was an eagle atop a swastika and “L-20”—a designation for accounting purposes. Rousseau had seen the same crate yesterday in the basement of the Louvre, where he worked as a member of the maintenance crew.
The famed Chambord collection!
The German Ministry of Culture, now in charge of the Louvre, used the storage rooms to process paintings they had “acquired” for export to the Fatherland. Whether they were buying art or—as the rumors persisted—confiscating paintings, these masterpieces and treasures were being shipped to the Third Reich in inordinate amounts. The Chambord collection, he recalled, included Boucher’s
Diana Bathing
, Daumier’s
Le Wagon de Troisiéme Classe
, and Pissarro’s
Le Quai Malaquais, Printemps.
They were worth a fortune.
Anger at the loss of French art caused the pavement before him to blur for a moment. His hands tightened around the broom handle, and he could feel his heartbeat in his temple. As if German greed hadn’t taken enough . . . and now this.
The soldiers hefted the wooden crates into the boxcar as the officer checked off the progress. Then the next flatbed cart was loaded onto the train. This time, Rousseau counted eleven boxed crates—and then
five
more freight wagons appeared!
How much beautiful art was leaving France forever? He dreaded reporting back to Colonel Rol, his Resistance leader, what his reconnaissance confirmed: there were enough masterpieces being loaded onto the Berlin Express to empty a wing of the Louvre.
Anger turned to sadness. His heart ached at the realization that his country faced more losses than they knew. Their French culture was being stripped, one railcar at a time.
Rousseau stifled a groan as he resumed tidying up the platform. His thoughts returned to an earlier time when, at the age of eighteen, he’d started working in the Louvre’s maintenance department. Exposure to the world’s great masterpieces had given him a deep appreciation for fine art, especially oil paintings. He admired the way artists conveyed imagination through brushstrokes. Now his knowledge of and appreciation for fine art deepened the sense of loss.
What he saw stenciled on the next set of packed crates stunned him. These wooden boxes were part of the A series—A-1, A-2, A-3 . . . delineating the crème de la crème: Rembrandts, Rubens, van Goghs, Matisses, and Renoirs. He turned away, not daring to look back at the Wehrmacht soldiers loading the carefully packed wooden crates bound for Berlin. He had seen enough.
Rousseau glanced at the round clock overlooking the Gare de l’Est’s main hall. The Resistance leadership had asked him to call in his report at one o’clock, which was fast approaching.
He aimed his trash cart toward a side entrance that led to the maintenance shed, where several sweepers were taking a break. They too were part of the Resistance brotherhood.
“Someone wants to see you.” The supervisor motioned his head toward the station entrance.
Rousseau recognized Alain Dubois pacing the sidewalk. Dubois worked with him on the Louvre grounds.
Rousseau lit a cigarette as he made his way to Dubois, who immediately pulled him toward the deserted taxi stand.
“Salut, Alain. Everything okay?”
“The art is on the train, right?”
“Much more than we thought. There must have been two dozen A series crates today.”
Dubois swore in frustration.
“I know. So many masterpieces—”
“It’s more than that,” Dubois interrupted. “The FFL wants to blow up the train. They’re certain that Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring will be on the Berlin Express when it leaves at 14:05. But he left Paris yesterday. Our people saw him board a plane at Le Bourget.”
The picture cleared for Rousseau. Every couple of months, sources at the Louvre told him, Göring breezed into Paris to add to his swelling collection of fine art. The greedy general must have gone on another shopping spree, which would explain today’s heavy load-in of wooden crates. But the Field Marshal of the Luftwaffe also had a private plane at his disposal.
“Isn’t someone going to stop them?” Rousseau balled his fists at his side. The FFL, Forces Françaises Libres—or Free French Forces—were a rival underground group led by General Charles de Gaulle, even though de Gaulle had been exiled in London following the fall of France.
Rousseau gave Dubois a knowing look. They both belonged to a different resistance group—the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, or FTP, one of several Communist-led underground groups that spearheaded the Resistance. The FTP didn’t see eye-to-eye politically with the Gaullists, but they were united—for the moment—in their common fight against the Germans. “Keep your enemies close and your friends closer” was a motto Colonel Rol often repeated in their clandestine meetings.
Rousseau lifted his fist. “If the FFL blows up this train, they destroy irreplaceable masterpieces. But more importantly, Göring isn’t even a passenger. If German soldiers are killed, there will be reprisals. Who knows how many French will die—and for what?”
The usual ratio was 10:1—ten Frenchmen picked randomly off the streets and lined up for summary execution for every German soldier killed in Paris. He had counted at least ten soldiers at the train. If all perished, then at least a hundred innocent Frenchmen would pay the ultimate price, one far too high for failing to kill the Reich’s second-in-command.
“Colonel Rol wants us to stop the attack.” Dubois rubbed his brow. “Rol is worried about the reprisals, but now there is so much more we could lose . . . our heritage, our masterpieces.”
“But how? We don’t even know where the train will be blown up.”
“One of our people was in the meeting when the decision was made to assassinate Göring. They are wiring dynamite to the track just past the marshaling yards in Pantin.”
“Can’t anybody get to the FFL and tell them Göring flew back yesterday?” Rousseau asked.
“We got the message minutes ago, and there’s no time to get through to them. And what if they don’t listen—don’t believe Göring flew back? They might go ahead with it anyway. We have to stop the attack ourselves.”
“But the Berlin Express leaves in thirty minutes. It has to be four or five kilometers to the Pantin Triage. We’ll never get there in time.”
Dubois held up a hand. “We must try. Otherwise there will be a massacre for nothing. And the art . . .”
Rousseau didn’t need Dubois to finish that thought.
Rousseau flicked a layer of sweat off his forehead and looked over his shoulder. Dubois was nowhere to be seen. Even though Rousseau’s sturdy bike wasn’t built for speed, he had pulled away from his fellow Resistance member not long after they departed the Gare de l’Est, Dubois yelling encouragement as he faded in the distance.
Rousseau pumped his legs harder as he flew along the Avenue Jean Jaurés, unfettered by traffic. Gasoline-powered cars, trucks, and taxis had practically disappeared since the Nazis took over.
Fighting to keep his legs driving like pistons, Rousseau rued his smoking habit. He pulled off his hat and tucked it inside his overalls, freeing both hands and allowing him to crouch down, reducing wind resistance. Leaning into turns, he rolled through roundabouts like a truck driver owning the right-of-way and dodged cars at busier intersections.
A glance at his watch told him that the Berlin Express had departed the Gare de l’Est. Most likely, the train had left on time—a testament to German efficiency. Rousseau figured he had less than a kilometer to go. Getting there on time wouldn’t be enough; he needed several minutes to find the person detonating the dynamite charge.
The marshaling yard at Pantin was a beehive of activity. Rousseau knew it well. One of the ways the underground confounded the brazen invaders was by throwing a rail switch at the opportune moment, resulting in derailments and devastation but no deaths.
He figured the Berlin Express would be staying on the “through” track once inside the Pantin rail yard. If Dubois’ information was correct, then the train would be blown up after the main rail line converged with side tracks at the eastern end of the Pantin Triage.
A loud steam whistle pierced the air, jarring Rousseau’s nerves. He looked up, startled. The Berlin Express had arrived, slowing as the long train entered the yard. He had only a minute, if that, to find the dynamite charge.
Rousseau steered his bike to a dirt path between the rail lines, eyes fixed on the convergence point. He kept pedaling rapidly, as if he was sprinting for a finish line.